Prince Thief (13 page)

We hurried to alight and I cautiously tethered my steed, for the expression in his large and too-white eyes told me he’d much rather be galloping in the other direction. “You and me both,” I muttered, as I tied off a last knot.

By the time I had him secured to my satisfaction, the others were already hurrying on. I dashed to catch up. As we careened around the bend, the northwestern gate came into view – and for all that I thought I knew what to expect, my jaw still fell open.

The gates were wide open, their inner edges broken and splintered. Perhaps that was small wonder, for there was only so much that could be done to repair a portal so recently smashed, especially in a city that was coming apart at the seams. And just as at the palace, the gatehouse had become a focal point for the fighting, its narrow confines going some way to levelling the odds between the city’s defenders and the purple-clad soldiers pressing from outside.

All of that was shocking, without doubt. I’d never truly believed Altapasaeda could be vulnerable to any army; compared with the rest of the Castoval, it had always seemed indomitable. Yet, strange as it was to see the city under attack, it wasn’t unexpected. No, what defied my belief wasn’t the fighting already inside the walls – it was just who was fighting.

Giants. There were giants massed alongside the defenders. And in case I tried to convince myself it was a trick, a scam like the one I’d once conceived myself, they were wearing armour made ready to their scale and bearing weapons, great spiked hammers each as tall as a small tree, and they were using those weapons, sweeping bloody swathes through the men crowding into the breach.

I realised too late what was about to happen, what was
bound
to happen, and I was already asking myself what I could possibly do to stop Saltlick when he thundered past me. He was roaring a word in giantish, over and over and over – and though I couldn’t understand, though it was reduced to sheer noise by rage and grief and buried in the crash of his feet, I was sure I knew exactly what he was saying.

No! No! No!

Then Saltlick was amidst the fighting, men diving and stumbling to get out of his way, and he was forcing himself into the very heart of the violence, like a surgeon’s knife plunged into a canker. His brethren looked astonished to see him, and cowed. He snatched a hammer from one and hurled it as if it were a twig; it struck the wall and lodged there, its head a hand deep in the spider-webbed stone. Another followed after, scattering cobbles, a dozen men tumbling to avoid its impact.

It was clear now that most of those pressed in the gatehouse were Pasaedans, and that the giants had been the only thing keeping them out of the city. With our attackers’ initial alarm beginning to pass, they seemed more unsure than afraid. It must be dawning on them that Saltlick, still busy plucking and discarding hammers, wasn’t simply another foe. In fact, wasn’t he aiding rather than hindering their assault? He’d disarmed most of the other giants by then, meeting no resistance – for they stood like sleepwalkers as he tore the weapons from their hands. Not only that but, unlike those others, Saltlick wore no armour. And while he might be doing the Pasaedans a favour, he still stood between them and their goal...

The first blow was hesitant, barely a prick. A soldier poked his sword at Saltlick’s calf, as if he expected the weapon to burst into flames the moment it made contact. When it didn’t, he looked more amazed than he had already. But that didn’t stop him from trying again, less delicately this time – and that was all the encouragement it took for those nearby to mimic his example.

Saltlick staggered. He glanced around him, as if dazed. The other giants were all unarmed now, but they weren’t backing off, were making no effort to disengage from the fighting – and I realised that nothing else would make Saltlick retreat.

I wanted to scream at them, but it was as though my tongue had swollen and clogged my throat. Anyway, by then it was already too late.

Because in that moment, Saltlick went down.

I watched it happen. I didn’t believe it.

Not one man there reached past Saltlick’s waist. They were mere men and he was a giant, and even as their swords fell against his flesh, it was impossible to imagine they could hurt him – really
hurt
him. And maybe if he hadn’t been wounded, half crippled by his spell underground and far past the point of exhaustion, they never could have. But Saltlick was all of those things – and as much as I refused to believe, still, I watched him fall.

Once he was on his knees, that made things easier for his attackers – though, more concerned with avoiding being crushed by his bulk, they were slow to appreciate the fact at first. It was only a brief reprieve, however; just as long as it took them to realise that a defenceless giant on all fours was even less of a threat than one standing.

By then, the Pasaedans could have simply gone around Saltlick, could have charged past all the giants had they wished to. It would have been the sensible, the tactical thing to do, and surely the fact that they didn’t had much to do with the brutal losses they’d just endured. In a mass, they closed upon Saltlick.

There was only one thing I could think to do. I grabbed Alvantes by a bunch of his shirt, shook him hard as I could, and – though I couldn’t quite believe what I was doing, though a part of me was already curling up in terror – I screamed in his face, “Damn you, get him out of there, you bastard! Do it now! You won’t let him die, you son of a bitch...”

That was as far as I got before Alvantes wrenched free and pushed me to the ground, none too gently. I fully expected his sword to follow – and in that moment, I didn’t care. Because behind me they were killing Saltlick, and I couldn’t let that happen.

I was on my feet before Alvantes knew it and went to grab him again, which was a mistake. All it earned me was a fist slammed hard into my jaw. It felt like he’d struck me with a sledgehammer, and I was sure I’d fall and never get up; but something inside me pushed back and, driven by I knew not what, I only teetered and lurched once more towards him. “You save him,” I hissed, “or so help me, you’ll have to kill me here and now.”

“I
can’t
, Damasco.” I was brought up short by the grief in his voice. “Look around you. Will you just look?”

I didn’t want to look. I knew too well what was happening. Worse, I could hear it. Yet to not look was to give up, and I couldn’t do that either. Starting to turn, I saw Estrada first, staring past my shoulder. Tears were streaming down her face. “Saltlick,” she was saying, her voice on the edge of breaking. “Saltlick, Saltlick...”

Where Saltlick had been, there were now only Pasaedan soldiers. The only clue to where he’d fallen was that their blows were all landing in one place. The Pasaedans were everywhere now, well past the border of the gatehouse. All that kept them from overrunning us was the effort of ending Saltlick’s life.

I understood what Alvantes had said – and as I looked back, I understood too the helplessness in his eyes.

Perhaps he misread my own expression though, saw condemnation where there was only despair. “What can I do, Damasco?” he shouted. “We can’t save him!”

I understood. But I couldn’t accept it. Saltlick was the only true friend I’d ever had, the only one who’d ever shown me real decency and asked for no recompense. I had to do something, and there was nothing at all I could do. My knees were weak, so I sank onto them.

Then over the tumult, came a voice – a voice I knew and hated.

“Maybe you can’t,” cried Castilio Mounteban. “But I’m damned if I won’t.”

Had I not been so absorbed with Saltlick, I’d have seen him coming; for Mounteban was close enough by then to have heard Alvantes, close enough that I’d have made out his horse’s thundering approach upon the east-west road if I’d only thought to listen. And confident as he sounded, it wasn’t his words that gave me hope; it was the crowd of armed men he was leading.

It took a single moment for that hope to sour. I couldn’t count their numbers, but they were a ragged enough bunch. Though a few were mounted, most were on foot, and it was obvious they’d been running hard. They all wore the Altapasaedan uniform Mounteban had thrown together, leather armour under cloaks the colour of old blood – but the gore that marred their clothing was fresh enough. Wherever they’d come from, they’d already seen more than their share of fighting.

At their head, Mounteban rode upon a hulking black charger that looked every bit as foul-natured as its rider. His face was slick with sweat; the tunic he wore beneath a shirt of chain mail was stained dark at the underarms. Still, there was ferocity in his expression, a rawness of passion I’d never have expected, as though the presence of enemies within the city walls were an indignity aimed just at him. As he drew his scimitar, as he pointed it in wordless order at the Pasaedan troops, he almost looked heroic.

The impression lasted only as long as it took him to crash into the hurriedly reforming cluster of men in the gateway – for there was nothing noble in the fury with which he flung his sword about. I couldn’t say what he meant to achieve, if he was trying to rescue Saltlick or to single-handedly push the Pasaedans back, or whether he had any plan at all. As he flailed at any head within reach, it was easy to believe that he just wanted to inflict as much injury as possible.

Then again, maybe Mounteban’s charge stemmed from more than mere bloodlust. His frantic assault had made time enough for his motley pack to catch up, for them to join with the existing defenders and hurl themselves into the fray. For all their matching uniforms and surface unity, they attacked with no hint of order or battle plan; no two men standing shoulder to shoulder fought the same way. Suddenly, the combat looked less like two armies clashing, more like a street fight grown wildly out of control.

Just then, however, perhaps chaos was what was needed. The Pasaedans had come expecting a war, had faced monsters instead, and now these men who looked like soldiers but battled like the dirtiest bar brawlers. And it did nothing for our enemies’ discipline when, with a ferocious roar, Alvantes chose to lead his small posse of guardsmen into their exposed flank.

That was the tipping point. Perhaps they had the weight of numbers, but with attacks from two sides and no room to manoeuvre, the Pasaedans had no option left except retreat. Even that they couldn’t do in any orderly fashion, for every slight gap in their ranks was an opening for one of our side to jab his blade through. By the time they were halfway through the gatehouse, the Pasaedans were practically in disarray.

But I couldn’t have cared less about that, or even the battle for the city. All that mattered was that the retreat had freed Saltlick from the Pasaedan lines, like a boulder revealed by a receding tide. I couldn’t tell if he was moving, if he was alive. All I could see was that the cobbles were drenched with blood enough to drown a man in, and his pale hide was a web of dripping crimson gashes. I wanted to run and help him, but what could I do? Even if I’d known the first thing about doctoring, I doubted there were bandages enough in the entire city to cover those wounds.

Fortunately for Saltlick, Estrada was less quick to admit defeat. She was already dashing across the intervening space and, even as I wondered what she meant to do, began to beat upon the leg of the nearest giant. She didn’t lay off until he tilted his head to look down at her; then she pointed.

What Estrada had indicated was a horseless cart, drawn up in the lee of the walls. Perhaps it had been intended to shore up the gates, or left by some panicking merchant. Either way, the giant gave no indication that he’d understood. When Estrada took a step towards the stranded vehicle, however, he followed. Finally, when they were halfway to it, he blurted a couple of blunt syllables in giantish, and a second moved to join them.

Though Estrada had given up trying to communicate in gestures, it seemed the giants had grasped the fundamentals of her plan by then. Rather than try to drag the cart, they decided the easiest course was simply to hoist it upon their shoulders; they were moving with urgency now, as if they’d woken to the horrors of recent minutes at last. The two bore the cart as though it weighed nothing at all, dropped it with a crash that nearly shattered its every wheel upon the red-slicked cobbles.

“Careful!” Estrada hurried to bar their way, and when they looked confused, tried to indicate through gentle sweeping motions that Saltlick couldn’t just be hoisted like a sack of potatoes.

Alvantes and Mounteban, meanwhile, had managed to not only drive out the Pasaedans but to slam the damaged gates upon their backs. While Mounteban coordinated the effort there, Alvantes turned to haranguing the remaining giants: “Damn you,” he bellowed, “do something useful! Barricade those gates!”

They surely didn’t understand his words, but the accompanying gesticulations were easy enough to follow. There were supplies close at hand, heaps of sturdy wood piled not far from the gatehouse, no doubt intended for just such a purpose. The giants began to prop beams in place, to pile timber haphazardly against the weakened sections. If it was clear that they didn’t quite grasp the sense of what they did, still they managed in mere minutes what would have taken men the rest of the day.

By the time they’d finished a rudimentary barricade, the other two giants had Saltlick into the back of the cart. A slug trail of crimson led from where he’d fallen, and the cart’s inside was slicked with blood. I still couldn’t tell if he was moving.

Finally, I managed to shift my legs. Maybe there was nothing I could do, but I could only bear being useless for so long. Close up, Saltlick looked even worse, like a slab of well-worked meat on a butcher’s stall. As I watched, though, one eyelid – the one not caked shut with gore – fluttered ever so slightly.

“He’s alive,” confirmed Estrada. “But barely. Easie, I don’t know if even Saltlick can–”

I didn’t want to hear the end of that sentence. “He has to,” I said.

“If we can stop the bleeding–”

“We’ve a hospital set up in the Market District,” put in Alvantes, marching towards us. “You two,” he summoned the giants waiting patiently nearby, and pointed back the way we’d come. “Carry him that way.” Then, waving over a guardsman I recognised as Gueverro, he added, “Sub-Captain, accompany them. Find a good surgeon and make certain they do whatever’s needed.”

But all of that I saw and heard as though through a haze. For the instant Alvantes had begun to speak, memories cold and clear as ice water had spilled into my mind – recollections of a conversation we’d had not so very long ago. With hardly a thought and for the second time that day, I grabbed Alvantes by the throat. “This was your doing, wasn’t it?” I screamed. “You vicious bastard! You’ve been planning for weeks to drag the giants into your stupid wars. Are you happy now?”

I realised what would feel even better than shaking Alvantes – and almost before I knew it, my fist was crunching into his nose. It mightn’t have been much of a punch, but it was more satisfying than anything I’d ever done – and the second was better. There was a roaring in my ears and my sight was a tunnel edged with red; but I could hear the smack of my knuckles against Alvantes’s face well enough, I could see each blow landing, and it was easy as anything to just keep going.

I noted with distant satisfaction when scarlet spattered from his nostrils. Alone, however, that probably wouldn’t have been enough to stop me – but at that point someone caught and gripped my wrist, and as I span around I was puzzled to see Mounteban, watching me from his one good eye.

Mounteban let go of my arm. “If you must know,” he said, “it had nothing to do with Alvantes. I talked the giants into helping. And if it saved Altapasaeda, I’d do the same again. So if you want to hit someone, Damasco, you’re welcome to try and hit me.”

I was furious. I wasn’t suicidal. If I threw a punch at Castilio Mounteban, it would be the last thing I ever threw at anyone.

Still, that didn’t mean I had to let it go. I fixed him with my best stare, poured every drop of hatred I felt into it, and said, “I might not have lived a blameless life, Mounteban, but I’m no killer. If Saltlick dies, that’s something I’ll be looking to change.”

Mounteban held my gaze – and I realised then how hopeless it was to try and intimidate him. You didn’t lead the life Castilio Mounteban had lived and let yourself be afraid, of anyone or anything. “One of these days,” he said, “we’ll have to have a talk about what happened to my man Synza.”

Synza... the lunatic assassin Mounteban had sent after me during our recent conflict, and a subject I’d hoped might have slipped his mind. I really
hadn’t
killed Synza, a misjudged step from a high cliff had taken care of that, but nor had I been entirely blameless in his death.

Then it occurred to me that Mounteban had played right into my hands. “All you need to know,” I said, “is that it was messy, and that it could easily happen again.”

However, I had to abandon our glaring contest then, for, with a grunt more of irritation than pain, Alvantes had climbed to his feet – and I could hardly keep looking at Mounteban when I was about to have my face pounded into blood porridge.

When Alvantes took a step towards me, Estrada put a restraining hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry,” he said, brushing her fingers off with his own and then dabbing a smear of crimson from his nostrils. “I’m not going to hurt him. Anyway, he was right; I
did
want to make the giants fight for us.” His eyes brushed across Mounteban. “And I see now that it’s something only a monster would have done.”

With my anger and excitement rapidly abating, I felt none too good about attacking Alvantes. We might be far from friends, but it was also true that a good part of our mutual animosity had dissolved in recent days – and now here I was, pummelling his face for no reason, after he’d just fought not one but two desperate battles. “Alvantes...” I began.

He looked at me for the first time. “Still,” he said, “you might want to keep out of my way for a day or two, Damasco.”

I nodded weakly. “I’m going to see if there’s anything I can do for Saltlick,” I mumbled, to no one in particular.